Ned
After the Greyjoy Rebellion, he'd taken to wandering the halls at night. Seeing the lives he had taken, the sons who had died, the son of the traitor who was now his ward who cried in the evening for his family – despite his insistence that he did not – made him worry for his own children. The war may have been over for the realm, but in his heart, it still raged, and he'd barely begun to heal the wounds from the last one.
Now he feared they would only fester.
But the sight in his daughter's room never failed to put him at ease.
Two small forms were curled up on the bed together. Small, but larger than they had been when he left for the Iron Islands. Could the wars cease for just one moment? He wished to see his children grow.
"I keep trying to separate them," his wife said behind him. Catelyn snuck around his side, leaning her head against his shoulder. "But Robb doesn't like to stay in his room. He winds up in here half the week."
Ned couldn't help but chuckle. "I think he ends up in here every night. He just happens to wake up before us some mornings."
He could feel her smile against him. "No one wakes up earlier than you. I believe you're out to convince everyone that you don't sleep."
Feeling smug, he wrapped an arm around his wife's waist, and drew her close to him. "And why should I sleep, when I have you sharing my bed?"
Catelyn smacked him lightly, shushing him for fear of the children, but he could see that look in her eyes, that desire.
Sometimes it still struck him as strange. She was always meant to be Brandon's, to share his bed, bear his children, be his wife, but Ned could not imagine his life without her, and not stand the thought of a world without their children, but would that not mean his brother and sister and father would be returned?
It was a dangerous road those thoughts lead down, and he'd thought on them far too often as of late.
To assuage it, Ned stepped inside the room and sat beside the bed where his oldest children slept, oblivious to the conflict in their father's heart. Robb stirred slightly as he ran a hand through his curls, but Myra never moved a muscle, soundly asleep.
"What are we to do with them?" his wife whispered from the doorway.
Ned returned to her, shaking his head. "Let us worry about that another time. They are young yet."
"They'll have to live apart eventually."
"Aye, but they'll always need one another."
Myra
Robb.
Talisa.
Mother.
Robb.
Talisa.
Mother.
Jaime Lannister sends his regards.
Robb.
Talisa.
Mother.
Jaime Lannister sends his regards.
Robb.
Jaime Lannister sends his regards.
Talisa.
Jaime Lannister sends his regards.
Mother.
Jaime Lannister sends his regards.
Jaime Lannister.
Jaime.
Jaime.
Why?
Why?
Why?
He cared for you.
How?
How?
He cared for you.
No.
He cared for you.
Jaime Lannister sends his regards.
Robb.
Talisa.
Mother.
There was a noise, door scraping across the floor. Where was she?
A bloody hand lay across from her. Hers. It was hers. She was on the floor. A room? What room? How did she get here?
She closed her eyes.
Roose Bolton shoved a dagger into Robb's heart.
She opened them.
Voices. People. They were close.
"Been there all night, she has," one said, older, frail, a woman. "The boys dropped her up here and I don't think she's moved since."
"The poor thing," another replied, younger, sympathetic. No, no sympathy here. Nothing here but death. "I can't imagine what she's been through."
"Don't let the boys hear you say that. Black Walder already cuffed one of the little ones for crying."
"The Others take that bastard. Who does he think he is, walking 'round like he's better than us?"
The first one chuckled. "Funny how you don't speak that way when he's within earshot."
Laughter. How can they laugh? Beneath their feet, there were bodies. Outside, there were bodies. Dead. Everyone was dead. They spoke kind words but laughed while the bodies were still warm.
One knelt before her. Gray hair, blue eyes, wrinkled. She was an older, unmarried daughter of his. What an ugly thing she was.
"Come on, dear, let's get you cleaned up."
A hand touched her shoulder.
Myra shouted. There were no words, just a long, strangled sound as she slapped the offending appendage away.
More hands followed, and more words, and she fought off each one of them with more ferocity than the last. One strayed too close, and her teeth met flesh.
"She bit me!" the younger one shouted. "Others take her, she's feral!"
Curling up into a ball, Myra let their shouts and curses wash over her until the door shut again and the silence returned.
Robb.
Talisa.
Mother.
Robb.
Talisa.
Mother.
When the door opened again, the light outside had changed. Later in the day, or was it early in the next? Had it been night before or was it night now?
"She scared them off?" a man asked. "That pathetic thing on the ground?"
"They're women, what do you expect?"
She knew that voice.
She'd always know that voice.
Black Walder.
What beautiful, sinister words he had spoken to her brother, to her family, and all the while he had this planned. He had a dagger to her family's back and they had fallen for it, because they had believed in honor, but they forgot that no one else did.
She couldn't fight these hands. She struggled and kicked and shouted, but they pulled her up from the ground. Unwillingly, her feet met the floor and held her up, though Black Walder gripped her from behind to keep her from moving, hands bound behind her back.
Myra didn't know the other one, but he was a Frey like all the others, ugly and scrawny, more akin to a weasel than anything else.
She hated him with every fiber of her being.
"Not much of a wolf if you ask me," he said, reaching out to touch her face.
Instinctively, her leg kicked out and made contact with his groin. When he doubled over, she kicked him again in the head. The unnamed Frey began to writhe on the ground in pain.
Black Walder began to laugh. "More than enough for you."
When the other had recovered, he gave Black Walder a dark look before backhanding her across the face.
She didn't fall, not with Black Walder gripping her so tightly, but her body went limp and her mind lost track of everything once more.
Myra became aware that she was being dragged. She felt her feet brush against the ground, felt the tiniest pain when they bumped on each step as she was brought downstairs. Her eyes opened to a stone floor slowly moving beneath her, but the fight in her body was spent. She couldn't even lift her head to see where they were taking her.
It didn't really matter though, did it?
Robb.
Talisa.
Mother.
They dropped her on a wooden floor, in an open space so large she could hear the sound echo. Someone coughed somewhere, bells tingled, brushes were scrubbing against the floor, and in the distance, she could hear silverware scraping against each another.
Myra looked up to see Walder Frey eating from his chair, seated at the dais she had seen him at last.
No.
No. No. No.
Her eyes frantically moved about the room. Blood was still on the floor. So much blood. The servants washed it with brushes and cloth but it stained them through until all they were doing was spreading it more. The bodies were gone but she could see the trails they left, where they had been dragged and where they fell. She could see where her brother...where he...
"No!" she screamed, energy returning as she shot to her feet in an attempt to flee the room. Black Walder and the other Frey grabbed her by the shoulders almost immediately and forced her back to her knees, bone smacking wood for all to hear.
The flower crown that the girls had given her – the girls she danced and laughed with while their brothers and father plotted murder – fell into her face. It had stayed on, despite everything.
"Take that stupid thing off," Walder ordered from the table, his mouth full of food.
She felt a hand rip the crown from her head, hair and all; she didn't cry out from the pain. How could she feel it in light of all they had taken?
"Tried to use it to keep track of you. Look at me girl." A hand grabbed her chin and forced her head up. He was pointing at her with a fork, while the fool Jinglebell danced behind him. "Didn't want the crossbows damaging that pretty little body of yours. Unlike your fool of a brother, I can still find some use for you."
Fool? Her brother a fool?
He didn't kill his king in his halls. He didn't violate guest right before the realm. He didn't proclaim to the Seven Kingdoms that he was a man to never be trusted, on the field or in his home. Walder Frey won no victory, and he was too wretched a person to see it.
Walder took a drink from his goblet, tapping the seat next to him.
"Your mother relieved me of my wife," he said, sounding almost amused. "Not that it matters much. She was an ugly thing. Could scarcely tell her apart from my own flock, though I suppose that's not unusual given what they've been up to in King's Landing."
He took a moment to cackle at his own joke. Jinglebell laughed too, and danced more.
"Fortunately, Lady Catelyn has left me with a suitable replacement," Walder continued as Myra felt her heart begin to sink. "You came here in good faith, after all, to see this alliance through."
How he twisted her words, how he took them and wrung out all the honor and goodness and turned them into vile things. How he used them against her.
Myra stood abruptly and even both men holding her had difficulty keeping her in place as she tried to lurch forward and wring Walder Frey's neck herself.
"YOU WILL NEVER HAVE ME!" she screamed.
The room fell silent and even the fool ceased his dancing.
But Walder Frey was unaffected, looking at her like the lecher he was.
Had this always been his plan? Even his wife? Who but the Lord of the Crossing could have Robb Stark's heir?
He sat straighter in his seat. "Girl, I've killed a king and brought a war to its end. What makes you believe that bedding you is going to be so difficult?"
And then he laughed.
He laughed and he laughed and he laughed.
He laughed so hard that those in the room felt obligated to join him.
It echoed throughout the space where men had once screamed and died, where their blood still gathered in the cracks while servants eyed their lords and said nothing.
Black Walder grabbed her head, holding it close so he could whisper.
"It won't be so bad," he said, voice painfully sweet. "Just close your eyes and pretend he's the Kingslayer."
Jaime Lannister sends his regards.
No.
No.
No.
How dare he.
HOW DARE HE.
The world grew quiet; the laughter faded and everyone turned to darkness, except him.
Walder Frey.
She wouldn't let him. She would die before he could touch her.
No, he would die. He would die and she would laugh as she stood over his corpse. He would know that no one attacks a wolf without consequences.
She would take a dagger – yes, yes, take the dagger – and she'd stab him over and over – again and again, yes, kill him.
Myra could see him twitching in surprise. He wouldn't register the pain. It would be too quick, too unexpected. He only looked at her and asked why.
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why, because you killed them. You killed them all, and you thought you could have me too.
Winter has come for you, Walder Frey.
And she would stab him again and again. She'd twist the knife, stab shallow, stab deep, a new pain each time. Once for every bolt, for every cut, for every man and woman gone.
And only then would she allow him to die.
Someone screamed.
The world returned to focus, and Myra found herself alone on the floor. She looked at her hands, bloody and shaking, and could have sworn there had once been a knife in them.
When she looked up, there was a commotion at the lord's table. Women wailed as men ran forward to the centermost seat. Others turned to the fool, Jinglebell, as he dropped a knife and began to weep. He held his hands up, terrified, but Black Walder cut him down with his sword.
And there, in the middle of it all, was Walder Frey: a pale, bloody mess, stabbed through the chest and the stomach and even the eye.
The Late Lord Frey.
Myra smiled.
And then she laughed.
Sansa
After everything that had happened to her over the course of the last year, Sansa found the concept of remaining still to be absolutely foreign to her. She was neither hiding from anyone – rather hard to when everyone knew where you were – nor was she being chased. Her whole disguise, if it had ever been one, had been thrown away entirely, allowing her to both become Sansa Stark once again as well as retire her career as a handmaiden, which was perfectly fine by her. She may have been thankful for the ruse, but that did not mean she had to like it.
However, she didn't mind the reactions of her fellow servants when they found out the truth.
The dye had nearly been washed from her hair, allowing her natural red to shine through once more. She was glad to see it back. One of the few things she still enjoyed from her journey to the South was the way the sun made the red of her hair glow. Back home, it was dark and dreary and all the colors became muted no matter how vibrant they started. That had been one of the most fascinating things to her: how bright King's Landing was. Dorne was no different. The tile work across the Water Gardens was masterfully done, displaying an array of colors she had not thought possible.
How easy it was now to focus on the simple things.
Not that she had stopped everything from before.
Visiting Oberyn was easier now. Rather than sneak about in the strange hours of the day, she could seek him out whenever she pleased. However, Sansa learned very quickly that her teacher was a very busy man, and not in the ways her father had been.
When she had walked down the corridor only to witness three women and one half-naked man shuffling out of the door, she'd been unfortunate enough to catch Oberyn's eye. He was dressed, barely, but that did not keep her from being unable to face him for a week. It took another for her to even talk.
There were many things she was growing accustomed to in Dorne. That would never be one of them.
Sansa looked up from her book as a child's squeal caught her attention.
It was a cool day in Dorne – but still outrageously hot for any normal person – and that had caused the inhabitants to wander outside. It was fall now, or so the Citadel had told them. She found that hard to believe, though Winterfell received summer snows, so perhaps the weather had always been a peculiarity to her.
Myrcella was in the pools with Oberyn's youngest daughters – Obella, Dorea, and Loreza – as well as the children of the servants. Here in Dorne, they did not mind as much when lowborns mingled with them, and neither did Myrcella it seemed. She only wanted happiness, and found plenty with the children around her.
It reminded her of Myra in a way.
Sansa could scarcely imagine what Cersei would think of it, but what little she could made her grin.
"And here I thought Starks did not smile."
Ellaria Sand took a seat across the small table from her, dressed in an outfit that used to scandalize her, though now she saw the benefits of such an ensemble.
Sansa had taken shelter under a large canopy, choosing to politely decline Myrcella's invitation to swim earlier. A selection of fruit sat in a silver bowl next to her, as well as a goblet of wine. She'd sipped from it occasionally, though Sansa preferred the water next to it. Even in the shade, she was quite warm.
"Not in public, at least," Sansa replied, closing her book. "We have a reputation to maintain after all."
Ellaria chuckled, accepting a goblet from a servant.
They watched the children in silence, nothing terribly uncomfortable, though Sansa had the notion she was being tested. Ellaria was a fierce woman, protective of everything that was hers, and though she had more or less been accepted into Dorne properly, Sansa could tell that the caution was still there. After all, their lives had been on the line.
Had she not been so close to Oberyn, Sansa believed she'd have never shared more than two words with the woman.
"It is hard to believe that anything terrible is happening in the world when you see children at play," Ellaria mused, smiling as the children began to sit on one another's shoulders and fight. Obella had Dorea on hers, while Myrcella held Loreza. They chanted house words back and forth to one another while the youngest girls locked hands. There was no clear winner as both sets of girls stumbled and fell back into the water.
Yes, Cersei would not be pleased at all.
"I try to imagine everything is alright," Sansa admitted, glancing around the area. She could see Prince Doran seated on the other side of the pool, with his ever-vigilant guard, Areo Hotah. "But then I close my eyes and see my father at the Sept of Baelor, or I hear my brothers giggling through the empty hallways, and then I remember that I'm lying to myself."
The beauty of the Water Gardens was like a slap to the face some days. How could something so wonderful exist in the midst of everything? What had they done to deserve such happiness? What had her family done to deserve the opposite?
"You and Oberyn are very much alike. Perhaps too much so," Ellaria spoke after a while. Sansa had not even noticed the girls had leapt out of the pool and taken to eating cakes in the shade of the trees. "It worries me."
Perhaps it should have worried her too.
The man in question suddenly appeared between a gap in the trees, walking toward them at a pace that was rather slow for him. He waved at the girls as they shouted at him from across the pool, but Sansa could tell his heart was not really in it. Something heavy was on his mind.
She took a breath.
Why did she know it was for her?
"Here is a sight I never expected to see," Oberyn said as he reached the table. He was clearly stalling. The last time he looked so nervous, she had been yelling at him over leaving her in the dark about Winterfell.
Gods.
"Should I be worried that the two of you are conspiring against me?"
"Never, my love," Ellaria replied with a smile, though it was strained. She knew as well.
"Tell me," Sansa blurted, cutting off whatever other distractions Oberyn might have spoken. She just wanted it over with.
Oberyn sighed, glancing at his paramour. "Will you give us a moment?"
Ellaria nodded, somber, and stood. She walked over to him, whispering something in his ear that she did not hear, and turned to join the girls. Oberyn stood still, waiting until the children shouted at his lover's arrival before continuing.
Sansa watched him, for once wishing she was the girl she had been before, unable to read others, unable to see the pity in his dark eyes. But it was so deep, even in her ignorance, she would have seen it. When Bran fell, it was the same way, a burden so heavy that there was no way to hide it.
What more, she thought. What more could they possibly take from me?
Oberyn sighed. "I regretted not telling you about your family before, so I have obligated myself to tell you now. But I wish that I did not have to."
He spoke the words and she listened. She heard the names of her family and words that she knew, vile, destructive words, and only after a while did it occur to her that they were together, her family and those things. Death. Massacre. Murder.
A red wedding.
She listened and she listened as her vision tunneled and the only thing she heard was the sound of Oberyn's voice. He kept saying those words and she wanted to tell him to stop, to shout at him, to hit him, but something kept her in place. She was tied down to the chair, her arms unable to lift themselves, her mouth unable to speak. Sansa was powerless to stop the truth.
Eventually, there was silence. Sansa remembered standing, and then falling. She remembered Oberyn's arms around her, and how she clung to them, gasping for breath.
Her eyes darted around the gardens, searching as tears blurred her vision.
She was looking for her mother.
Where was her mother?
Father?
Myra?
Robb?
Bran?
Rickon?
Arya?
Why was everyone gone?
"Don't hold anything back," she could hear Oberyn whisper in her ear. "Let it all out, or it will defeat you."
She screamed and wailed and cried until her throat was hoarse and in pain, and her tears had dried up. But she could not move, so neither would he.
I'll kill them all, she thought, as the sun went down, and they found themselves alone.
Every last one of them.
Jaime
He'd never thought his armor could be so uncomfortable.
Jaime had been aware that he had lost weight since he was taken captive, but he had never imagined it had been this much. He had never been bulky, but his body had filled out the Kingsguard armor well. Now, he swam in it. With every tie tightened, he still felt as though he were about to fall out of it if he took a wrong step. It made the shoulder guards rub against the breastplate, causing a scratching sound that made him wince.
New armor would be commissioned, of course, but Jaime doubted the feeling would fade. Not that wearing it had ever given him pride, but it had at least felt normal, like clothing he put on every day. Now it felt heavy and wrong, and putting it on felt like a chore – annoyance over doing it one-handed aside – and Jaime found himself loathing every minute of it.
He hadn't felt this way since Aerys.
Certainly, Robert had tested him, but he was nothing next to the Mad King.
And from what Jaime had heard, they were on their way to another one.
Joffrey was practically giddy, fidgeting from where he stood beside his Hand at the end of the table. His father looked on the verge of killing something. There was nothing he hated more than when people acted like fools, especially those related to him.
Cersei was watching Joffrey, impassive. Occasionally, she'd glance his way. He'd simply glare back; he couldn't pretend that being around her made him feel nothing, so he preferred to face it head on.
You look ridiculous with that beard.
That was the only thing she had said to him since their argument, during one of the handful of times they had encountered one another in the last few weeks, and at this point, Jaime was keeping it just to spite her.
Also, he wasn't quite capable of shaving with his left hand yet, and he had no plans of letting anyone else near him with a razor.
Gods, when had he become so paranoid?
The room remained quiet, despite their excitable king bouncing in the corner. A chair creaked, to his right, Maester Pycelle coughed, Varys tended to a loose thread on his robe as if it were the most offensive thing he had ever encountered, and together they waited.
Tyrion, from what Jaime understood, always kept the Small Council waiting.
At least some things never changed.
After dealing with his father's 'Lannisters don't act like fools' speech – the amount of times he'd been subjected to it was innumerable at this point – Jaime had been moved to his own chambers. They were far more spacious than his brother's, much redder too, more lions. He was sick of looking at lions.
He was bedridden for a few days, of which he recalled little more than the sound of his brother reading out loud and the odd patterns on the canopy above his bed.
When he was at last declared by Maester Pycelle to be fit enough to move on his own again, Jaime had snuck down into the training yard in the early morning, when the horizon was barely lit with the first rays of the sun and torches were needed to find one's way around the corridors.
He picked up a sword he had used often when sparring, remembering how the hilt felt. There was a scratch in the leather that had always fit perfectly in the palm of his hand.
It felt strange gripping the sword with the wrong hand, but he didn't have much choice. He was back home now; he had duties. As the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard – gods he nearly choked when Tyrion told him that one – it was his duty to be the best, to show more initiative than the others. Given the men who had been added to the roster since he left, it wouldn't have been hard anyway. Give a fool a sword, and he'd be the next Barristan Selmy compared to this lot.
Jaime hit one of the dummies in the courtyard, and immediately the sword fell out of his grasp.
For a moment, as he stared at the steel on the ground, he considered just walking away. Some part of him knew that it would not fare much better than this, but he'd never been the smart Lannister. He wasn't even the stubborn one; he was just the one unused to things going so wrong, and had convinced himself it was a fluke, despite all the evidence to the contrary.
Though he never dropped it again, Jaime couldn't claim that he had done well. He hit the dummies over and over, feeling his wrist strain at awkward positions that his right hand would have easily maneuvered through. The steel was often stuck in the material of the dummy, and his hand struggled with the basic movements. He was slow and clumsy and out of breath before he'd done a fraction of the training he used to accomplish with ease.
Months ago, he'd fought three men with a dagger.
Now he couldn't fight an inanimate object with castle-forged steel.
At some point, he'd grown angry, hitting anything and everything again and again with his sword, chopping at it like an axe to a tree. It was only after he heard footsteps somewhere that he stopped, dropping the sword and scurrying away like the coward he was.
He was hot and tired and dizzy, and somehow, he made it to his room in one piece.
He'd fallen face first into his pillow and did not wake up until the next evening.
Jaime hadn't bothered practicing since.
He spent most of his days with Tyrion, listening to him recount what had happened since he left, and recovering, whatever that meant. His wounds had healed, but his hand was still gone, his body had begun to ache in ways he hadn't thought it could, and half the days, his mind was elsewhere. Sometimes it was on Cersei or when he lost his hand, mostly it was on nothing, just vague impressions of wolves and dreams.
Sometimes, he remembered the cabin.
The door opened, attracting everyone's attention as Tyrion finally made his way into the chambers of the Hand. With a smug grin, he sat in the chair at the far end of the table, across from their father.
Tywin glared, but said nothing. It wouldn't have mattered either way.
"So," Tyrion started, looking around the table. "What wonderful news has brought us all together on this lovely morning?"
Tyrion ended the sentence looking at him, eyebrows raised. It was, admittedly, a bizarre situation. Jaime was not set to resume his duties for another fortnight, but as the Lord Commander, he had been ordered to the Small Council meeting by Joffrey himself, and to be dressed for the part as well. Jaime didn't know what it meant, if the king was just exercising his control or if he was prone to making a fool out of everyone he ran into, but if this was a taste at what he had in store for his future, he might actually start missing Robert.
With that in mind, Jaime simply shrugged.
His armor scratched.
Gods, he couldn't wait to get the bloody thing off.
Joffrey practically giggled.
"Read it to them, Grandfather."
His father sighed. Were Lord Tywin capable of rolling his eyes, he probably would have. That said, Jaime didn't think the man was capable of looking anywhere but straightforward.
"Roslin caught a fine, fat trout," his father started, sounding unamused by the wording. "Her brothers gave her a pair of wolf pelts for her wedding. Courtesy of Lord Walder Frey."
Jaime blinked.
The fat trout was clearly Edmure Tully.
And the wolf pelts...
Wolf pelts.
Tyrion tilted his head. "We're receiving wedding news from Stark bannermen now? Yes, Aunt Genna is married to Eamon or Emmon, whatever his name is, but I didn't think-"
Joffrey jumped. "Robb Stark is dead!"
Jaime.
Gray eyes were watching him, and it took everything in his power to remain still.
His good hand clenched, knuckles going white. The stump had reached for his sword, but neither his hand nor the weapon were where they were supposed to be.
He took a breath.
And another.
Cersei was watching him. He could see her lips curving upward, smug, satisfied. How he wished to wipe it from her face.
"We should have his head and his mother's brought to us for the wedding! They'll sit on pikes at the Dragon's Gate for everyone to see!"
Joffrey went on and on, spouting nonsense. Everyone let him. The war was over. They didn't care.
"-the looks on their faces as they see my foes rotting in the-"
"Two pelts!" Jaime spat.
Eyes all around the table met him, mouths wide open. Tyrion looked concerned, Varys curious, Cersei furious, and meanwhile, his father couldn't bother to produce an expression.
"What?" Joffrey asked pathetically.
"Lord Walder mentioned two pelts," Jaime continued, flexing his hand as it began to pulse too hard. "Last I checked, there were three Starks.
"Where is Myra Stark?"
He didn't care how they looked at him, how their eyes questioned his motivation and concern. They could think of every rumor their petty little hearts desired, none of that mattered to him. For once in his life, Jaime truly did not care about what the others thought of him. He only wanted answers.
Joffrey could only shrug.
"What does it matter? I'll take her head, same as the others." He grinned. "Perhaps we'll make her a centerpiece."
The image of Myra's head on a spike drove that dagger back into his chest and twisted.
Jaime stood abruptly from the table, his chair clattering to the floor. "The last two kings laughed at killing innocents as well. Perhaps you'd like to ask them how their lives fared after that."
Joffrey managed to look like a frightened little boy for once, backing away as Cersei stood to protect him. The look in her eyes was utter hatred. Worse than anything he had done with Myra, he had threatened their son.
Her son, because the boy she protected he barely knew. That had been her doing. It had all been her doing.
What did she leave you with, Jaime?
"That is enough," Tywin commanded. He had not moved from his seat, but there was an edge to his voice. He had crossed a line. "The Small Council is adjourned. We'll conclude the rest of this business later."
"A threat has been made against your king," Cersei hissed. "It must be dealt with."
Tywin stood then, drawing himself up to his full height.
If there was one weakness to ever be found in his father, Jaime knew it was him. There was only one thing that Tywin Lannister cared about, and that was the legacy of the Lannister name, and he had put all those hopes into him, never mind the Kingsguard, never mind Tyrion, Jaime was the heir to that legacy, and no force could threaten it without consequence, not Aerys, not Stannis Baratheon, and not even Jaime himself, despite the foolish decisions he made.
"Perhaps the Lord Commander simply wished to advise the king against this course of action," he suggested. Jaime could hear the threat in it. What he spoke was the truth, whether it actually was or not. "King Robert and King Aerys were terrible kings both, and it would be wise to not follow in their footsteps."
"My father was a great king," Joffrey spoke, twisting out of Cersei's grasp. "He fought his own battles and defeated his enemies with his own hands, unlike you, sitting here, cowering in the keep!"
The room fell silent.
"So he did," Tywin replied, somehow looking taller. "And I am certain you honored that legacy well at the Battle of the Blackwater."
Now Tyrion was the one bouncing.
Tywin looked around the table, waiting for anyone else to question him. Cersei looked ready to shout, but Jaime knew her. She wouldn't do it in front of the others; she would wait. Their father wouldn't be sleeping that night.
"Now, leave us."
The unspoken 'stay' was meant for Jaime.
Joffrey hesitated before allowing Cersei to escort him away. Jaime watched after them, biting his tongue until it bled because he knew that burning sensation on the side of his head was his father's gaze daring him to add to the foolishness.
Varys practically ran from the room while Pycelle even managed to move at more than a shuffle. Only Tyrion lingered, tempting their father's wrath as he watched him. There were a lot of unspoken things in his brother's eyes, things he'd rather not come to terms with.
Tyrion seemed to accept whatever he saw, however, and joined the throng escaping the lion's den.
The door shut.
"Sit."
There were few times in his life that Jaime had seen his father so angry that his rage could choke the room. After his mother died had been one, after he'd been sworn into the Kingsguard had been another.
And then there was now.
It was for fear of that rage that Jaime had often buckled in arguments before his father had gotten to that point, but not now. The fury of Tywin Lannister was nothing next to what Jaime felt now, the fire and the pain and all the sensations that he could not describe.
"Where is she?" he asked, his voice low.
His father crossed the gap between them, standing eye to eye with him, and Jaime met his gaze. He wondered how long they might stand there, two immovable forces with no intention of backing down.
Tywin sighed, turning and marching toward his solar. "Lannisters don't act like fools. I told you that not a week ago, and yet here you stand insulting your king, as the Lord Commander, no less! Were I not the Hand, Joffrey would be contemplating serving your head alongside the Starks!"
"Then I suppose I should be grateful that you're here to save your legacy," Jaime replied, following.
His father turned to him. "You have been given everything: a good name, wealth, power, talent, and you have spat in the face of that at every turn. Even now, after facing the consequences, you would continue to play the part of the stupid, little boy."
The ghost fingers twitched.
"And for what?" Tywin continued. "For our enemy, for the daughter of the man who would have had you killed nearly twenty years ago?"
"You owe her your legacy," Jaime replied, standing his ground. "I would not be standing here if it weren't for Myra Stark."
His father looked unconvinced. "The fact that the girl was foolish enough to let you go does not put a burden on me. Likewise, I don't owe her brother for marrying a foreigner and breaking his oath to Walder Frey. I simply took advantage of the fact."
"And had your enemies butchered at a wedding."
"I did what was necessary," Tywin countered. "Tell me, did you find killing your king necessary?"
Jaime bit his tongue, glaring at his father. They all used it against him in the end. Even to everyone closest to him, he was the Kingslayer.
His name is Jaime!
"Where is she?" he asked again, firmly.
Tywin shook his head, returning to his solar. He took a seat behind his desk.
"Lord Walder has undoubtedly let her live," his father admitted, pulling out a blank parchment. "He seemed to have a keen interest in the girl."
She was alive. Alive, and in the hands of the man who had killed everyone she loved.
His missing hand tried to reach for his sword again.
"You're going to let Walder Frey have the key to the North?" Jaime asked. "With her brother dead, Myra Stark is the only one left. Even you have to admit that giving her to the Freys is a poor decision."
His stomach churned speaking about her like this, but it was the only language his father knew: politics. And it was the one thing he'd never quite figured out.
"Sansa Stark is in Dorne. She has been for some time."
Jaime blinked. He wasn't certain what surprised him more: that the girl had managed to survive or that his father allowed her to be so far out of his grasp.
"And Roose Bolton is Warden of the North now," his father continued. "If either he or Walder Frey begin to think better of themselves, we will remind them that they can be easily replaced, as can Myra Stark."
He'd kill her too. Or perhaps he thought she'd die anyway. What else could a person do after everything she had undoubtedly witnessed?
She was just a pawn.
As was he.
And he was tired of playing the game.
"I'm going to the Twins."
"You'll do no such thing."
Jaime took a breath as his father stared him down. He could feel it. A trap being set, and he was willingly walking into it.
"You're the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. You do as your king commands," Tywin said. Jaime could have sworn he sounded smug. "You left King's Landing because Robert ordered you to, and you will stay in King's Landing because Joffrey will order you to."
"I made a vow to Myra Stark. I said I would protect her," Jaime replied, placing his good hand on the desk.
"So now oaths mean something to you?"
"She means something to me."
He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but there it was, out in the open. And suddenly that dagger was gone, and Jaime felt like he could breathe for the first time since this disaster began.
Tywin took a deep breath, watching him, weighing him.
Jaime waited.
"Is this supposed to be love? Is that what this display of foolishness has been: my son threatening his king because of misplaced affections?"
She's clearly in love with you.
"And what if it is?"
He hadn't meant to say that either.
Or had he?
Gods, his head was swimming.
Myra Stark was never meant to be anything to him, a woman he had saved when she needed saving, that was all, and somehow it had persisted. She hadn't judged him like the others, and even when she ought to have cast him aside, she forgave him; she was stronger than anyone had given her credit for, stronger than him, if he were honest. She was smart, witty, kind, and she had shown him that he was allowed to want something more for himself.
He didn't want Cersei, he realized, and he hadn't for some time. They were just lies he had told himself, because that was the only life he had known, that was the only life he thought he needed. But now he knew...
He wanted her.
He wanted Myra Stark.
His father had been silent as his mind wandered, watching him.
"Very well," Tywin started, dipping his quill in an inkwell. "I'll allow you to travel to the Twins, to take custody of the Stark girl, and bring her to Casterly Rock, where she'll remain a prisoner until the rest of the war has been dealt with...
"If you leave the Kingsguard and take your rightful place as my heir."
There it was: the trap. Jaime had the feeling his father had been waiting ever since his outburst back at the table, perhaps even before then. He'd been waiting for the right words, the right moment, to bring this up. It was all he ever waited for.
"There is now a precedent for the removal of Kingsguard members, and with your-"
Jaime grabbed at his cloak with his left hand, awkwardly unfastening the clips and tossing the fabric onto his father's desk. He would have removed the armor as well, but it would have taken him too long.
With one last look at his father – who managed to actually look surprised, or about as surprised as Tywin Lannister could be – Jaime walked out of the room.
Tyrion was waiting for him outside, his squire, Podrick, standing beside him.
Jaime pointed to the boy. "Find Brienne of Tarth. Tell her I'm leaving for the Twins before midday, whether she is with me or not."
The squire looked to his brother, who merely nodded.
"Do I ask what happened in there?" Tyrion offered as Podrick ran away.
"No," Jaime replied, walking away. He didn't bother keeping a slow pace for his brother.
"Where is your cloak?"
"Gone."
"Why?"
His brother was shouting now, not bothering to keep up.
"Because I'm Lord of Casterly Rock!"
Jory
His sword was soaked in Frey blood.
For three days, he had been hunting the bastards, picking them off as groups scouted the woods for fleeing soldiers. Starks, Tullys, or any of the lesser lords' men, it didn't matter. They were all killed without thought of mercy.
So, he did the same to them.
Even out of practice and missing an eye, it was easy. They weren't trained well; they were cowards. The smallest bit of brute force terrified them, and his rage gave him plenty to spare.
He slaughtered them as they slaughtered his lord and his ladies.
And he wasn't alone in doing so.
The direwolves had lived as well, and they, too, roamed the forest for victims. Body parts littered the surrounding area, because it was not enough that they killed them. No, they had to destroy them, erase the existence of their humanity.
Not that they'd ever had any.
As he stood at the edge of the Green Fork, pausing for the first time since he'd started – he had not slept or eaten or drank – Jory took in the Twins as dusk gathered around him.
A day too late, that was when he arrived. The wedding was done, the men were dead, and the Freys still drunkenly sang about it. He had asked two scouts if they were attacked, and in their state, they had told the whole truth.
Their blood had been the first on his blade.
A whine to his left caught his attention.
Grey Wind emerged from the river, dragging a body, their arm gently clutched between his jaws. When he had fully pulled the body free, the direwolf laid down beside it, whining more. His snout gently prodded the long, red hair, occasionally licking it.
Gods.
They'd thrown Catelyn Stark naked into the water. The decay had set into her body, the fish had begun to eat her flesh, and above it all, he saw the slash across her throat, deep and to the bone.
Jory stripped the cloak from his shoulders. Though muddy and covered in blood, it was all he could give her, and if was far better than anything she had received.
Head to toe, the fabric covered her. Jory knelt by her side, and gave a wordless prayer to his blinded gods.
And then he wept.
Was he to be all that was left?
Through two wars, Jory had watched those he cared for vanish and die. For two wars, he had endured only to find himself alone in the wake of his betters. Lord Rickard, Brandon, Lyanna, now Lord Eddard, Rodrik, Catelyn, Robb...
Myra.
Even the boys were gone, not safe in their own home. He hadn't the heart to tell Arya.
No, he'd been afraid. He had finally brought her to safety, and couldn't stand the thought of bringing her more heartache along with it, so he'd ridden north without a word.
And what he found was devastation.
"I failed you, my lady," he mumbled in between sobs. "I've failed all of you."
Grey Wind whined and began to howl.
Night had fallen when he became aware of the world again. Behind him, there were footsteps, several, and the sound of horses. Grey Wind rose slightly, and began to growl.
Not giving them the chance to speak, Jory shouted and unsheathed his sword. As he stood, he swung at the first body he saw, but they had been prepared, blocking the weapon easily with their own.
In the light of the moon, Beric Dondarrion looked like a ghost.
His strength left him and Jory dropped to his knees again, the sword falling from his grasp.
"Is it true?" he heard the man ask.
"They're gone. All of them."
There were murmurs amongst the group, curses and other vile things.
Jory looked up again and saw Thoros looking down at him with pity – no, stop, not for him. Nothing for him – and then he remembered.
"Your red god, he brings back the dead!" he shouted, leaping at the man. He grasped his red robes tightly and gestured to the body. "Bring her back!"
Thoros and Beric looked to one another, then the latter crossed the space to Catelyn's body. Grey Wind stood higher, snapping at his hand when he first reached out, but Beric was calm and undeterred. He waited the beast out and eventually removed the cloak.
He hung his head. "Lady Catelyn was an honorable woman. What they have done to her defies the laws of every god."
Thoros managed to get clear of him, moving to kneel by the body himself.
"The rot has set in," he murmured, hand hovering above her head. "Even if the Lord of Light granted such a gift, she would not be the same. No, I will give her funeral rites and see her body taken care of, but I will do no more."
Jory fell in front of him. "Please! Do not let this be her end!"
"You should be begging me the opposite," Thoros countered, his voice raised. "She is free from pain and suffering, and the knowledge of what has happened to her family, and you would dare bring her back to this."
"We could bring her justice, Thoros," Beric added, invoking a surprised and hurt glance from his friend.
"I won't do it."
Jory despaired.
What was he to do?
What?
Beric sighed, running a hand along her face – how beautiful it had once been – and thinking. The way his eyes moved, he looked to be debating.
And then he leaned down, kissing Catelyn gently on her forehead.
Nothing had happened, yet when he sat back up, there was a bewildered look on Beric's face. He turned to his men and nodded, smiling softly, before returning his gaze to them.
Jory had never seen a man look so relieved.
"Thank you."
He collapsed into the mud.
A commotion rose up as the men ran to his side, Thoros at the head of it.
"What have you done?" he shouted, placing his head and hands on the knight's chest. "Lord, cast Your Light upon this man, Your servant. Bring him back from death and darkness..."
He mumbled his prayers over and over, while the men shouted and panicked. How lost they seemed without their leader.
Jory paid them no mind, watching after Catelyn.
She was as still and cold as the moment she'd been brought out of the water.
Minutes passed, or perhaps an hour. He had no concept of time. Jory simply watched, and waited.
Grey Wind began to growl, baring his teeth at the body and snapping. Then the beast suddenly whined, flinching as if he had been struck, and ran off into the woods.
Catelyn Stark rose.
(Quick Author's note: I'm absolutely terrible at replying to comments on here - my mainstay is FF.net - so if you ever have any questions, feel free to ask or message me at my tumblr: poe-tato-dameron (formerly have-fun-storming-the-kastle). Thanks!)